Lost City of Refuge
by Ellie12
Summary: “He should have known better. Both of them should have, should have remembered how it ended instead of how it began.” HouseStacy


Title: Lost City of Refuge  
Author: Ellie  
Rating: PG13  
Paring: House/Stacy  
Summary: "He should have known better. Both of them should have, should have remembered how it ended instead of how it began."  
Author's Notes: These started as a second set of 100-word song title drabbles, after titles came up I couldn't ignore. Having done quite a few 100-word drabbles lately, I decided to forget counting words this time. Title taken from an eleventh, unused song that was oddly fitting.

----

_Uncle Jonny_

"You're a good shot, for a girl," he said, trying not to smile at the vivid splatter of blue by her hairline.

"I used to hunt with my daddy and my uncle," she replied. That tidbit seemed at odds with her well-coiffed hair and neatly manicured fingers, though added to the faded southern accent, intrigued him. "You're not a bad shot yourself."

"Marine brat. It would have been harder not to learn. You want to grab a drink?"

"After this, I could use one." She picked at a bit of green on her arm.

"There's a place right down the road with cheap pitchers and really great buffalo wings." He noticed a splatter of pink at the hem of his t-shirt and ignored it.

"If that offer wouldn't win a lady over, I don't know what would," she laughed. "I'm Stacy, by the way."

When he shook her hand, the grip was firmer than he'd expected, almost daring him to squeeze tighter. "Greg."

----

_J'ai Demandé à la Lune_

She'd never been one for camping, and had been reluctant to take Greg up on his offer. But he could be a persuasive bastard when his mind was set on something, so eventually she agreed. It turned out to be a cabin, not a tent, and was much plusher than she'd expected from a description of a weekend "roughing it."

It made her leery when he suggested going out in the boat at night, but this was for him, not her, so she agreed, willing to see what would happen. Watching the play of his muscles as he rowed them out to the middle of the lake under the starlight left her thinking this was an excellent idea.

The moon was full and pink, casting a silvery hue over the world, reflected in the dark water along with a universe of stars.

She came without hesitation, though with caution, when Greg gestured for her to move towards him in the boat. He could point out the craters that made the Man in the Moon, and knew the names of stars, but she was too absorbed in watching them reflected in his wondrous eyes to pay much attention to where they were tracking across the heavens.

----

_Clap Hands_

The bar is dark and smoky, blending well with the taste of her drink as she saunters through the crowd, finding a place at the bar where she can see the stage. It's lit, but not well, leaving the piano with only a bit of red key light, making him look more evil than usual as his fingers fly over the keys like something possessed.

He'd been reluctant to play in front of her for months, until once night after too many drinks and an offer on her knees in front of the piano, he'd settled on the bench and played until she lost count of the songs and couldn't identify the titles despite years of being dragged to concerts and symphonies by her mother. She'd rested her head against his thigh and been swept away, in awe of the symphonic universe inside his head.

There's a guitar solo that draws applause as she sips her bourbon, but it's the piano solo that undoes her, something so raw and passionate that it's hard to believe it flows out of his fingers. That's where all his emotion goes, out through his fingers into his patients and his piano, and she has to catch his eye while he's playing for it to be about her, but he's good now about playing for her and letting her feel it too.

Tonight, he looks up from the piano and lets his gaze sweep the room before settling on her, eyes resting on her while fingers fly perfectly over the keys. He rarely says it with words, but soaring notes let her know like the fingers were playing over her own flesh.

The entire audience applauds, but she stands, tottering on her heels, and is louder and more enthused than anyone else in the room, eyes locked on the man at the piano.

----

_Chicago_

She trudged through the airport, still in her skirt and heels from the funeral, looking out at the snow falling in the darkening sky. Overhead, monitors flickered and dozens of flights changed from "delayed" to "canceled." The last forty-five minutes of the flight from Mobile had been turbulent, bouncing through the snowstorm. She just wanted to be home, soaking in a hot tub with a glass of wine and Greg on the guitar in the next room, pretending not to care.

It seemed like miles of the same newsstands and coffee shops before she reached the Delta desk, where the red notice of her cancelled flight glowed. She dropped her battered Coach carry-on at her feet and rested one elbow on the counter, but managed a smile for the elderly clerk. "My flight to Philadelphia's been cancelled, and tomorrow's my boyfriend's birthday. I have a surprise planned, and really wanted to get home tonight. Is there anything you can do to help me?" She knew how to get what she wanted.

The man returned the smile and nodded. "Let me see how I can help, sweetie."

----

_Conceived_

Neither of them had ever wanted it, had discussed it and knew it in the abstract. But it was different, sitting in the cold bathroom waiting for a piece of plastic to provide their fate. The tile was cold against his back as he leaned against it and studied her drawn face.

"You're sure you wouldn't want it, Greg?"

He shrugged, wanting nothing so much right now as a very stuff drink. "If you want it, I'm not going to say no. But I thought we were both happy the way things are now."

"I am," she says, not sounding entirely convinced. "But I don't know if I could go through with not having it. Not wanting to get pregnant and not having it once I am are very different things."

She only uses simple descriptors like "very" when she's very nervous, and the tension is clear as she stares at the white plastic. He doesn't want kids, doesn't care enough, is too busy, is too stubborn, spends too much time working to be a good dad. He'd rather cough up the cash for a good boarding school, but he also knows that if she wants this, there's nothing he can do but end it all or support her. Both options terrify him.

After a long awkward silence, she picks up the stick and frowns. "Maybe I'm just really late."

"You want me to make you an appointment with Whitman tomorrow?" He reaches for his phone as she nods, looking uncertain whether she really wants to know.

----

_Cumulus_

It was the perfect day to be golfing, warm and sunny with just a handful of puffy, cotton-candy clouds marring the sky. The breeze was light, just enough to send the flags on the holes flapping.

He spotted the one he was aiming for, looking impossibly far away down the rolling green. This hole was his worst; he always ended up in the rough, or worse, the lake, and she always laughed at him. Settling the ball on the tee, he straightened with a grimace as his quads clenched and twitched. After a moment's hesitation, he shook out the leg and lined up his shot.

"Now I see what you were up to last night with wanting to try that contortion thing. You were hoping I'd pull a muscle!"

"Please, as if I need any help to kick your ass at this. Besides, I didn't hear you complaining then." She ran a finger down the back of his neck, her breath warm behind his ear.

He clutched at his leg as another pain shot through it.

"Greg, stop making excuses and hit the damned ball already."

She slaps his ass mid-swing, and the shot veers wildly into the rough. He turns to glare at her, but can't quite hold the look as they break down laughing. By unspoken agreement, he gets another shot, this time aiming straight and true, well on his way to par.

----

_Nessun Dorma_

Greg lay stiffly on the bed, staring at the blank ceiling, trying not to move and further aggravate his bandaged thigh. Even with extra medication, it still hurt too much for him to sleep. He didn't tell anyone about the extra pills, but Stacy knew all about the insomnia.

Beside him, she lay just as rigidly, breathing steady, deep controlled breaths that neither acknowledged was not sleep. They didn't talk much, now. The circles under her eyes had grown since he'd come home.

The bedside clock tick-tocked softly, the previously lulling sound now counting the seconds he spent awake, aching.

----

_50 Ways to Leave Your Lover_

She agonized over it for weeks. When things were good, they'd been very good. It was hard to remember that, now. Neither of them had been the sort who needed any sort of paper to make it official, had been content just to be.

That meant there was nothing official to sever now, making it easier. Not less complicated, or any less painful, but easier. Stacy contemplated just walking out after one of their increasingly loud and frequent shouting matches. She wanted to pick a fight and make it his fault for once. She debated starting a discussion that she knew wouldn't be the rational one she wanted to have. She hoped for a mutual decision over dinner that with starting her new job in Newark, it would be better if she went.

She kissed him goodbye as she left for work one morning, suitcase in hand.

----

_Cry Me a River_

In the middle of the afternoon he awoke and without leaving the bed, knew she was gone. The apartment felt empty in a way it hadn't in years, in a way that couldn't be assessed by what was missing from the closet and bookshelf.

Carefully, he levered himself out of the sickbed and made his way into the living room. The James Bond DVDs were still there, but the first edition Fitzgeralds were gone. He sank onto the couch, grateful the cable still worked, and flipped through the channels until he found the soaps. He cried along with the lead actress when she found out the baby's father wasn't who she thought it was.

----

_Against the Law_

He remembered enough to let himself get sucked in again, though he should have known better. Both of them should have, should have remembered how it ended instead of how it began. For the moment, he didn't want to remember any of it, wanted to forget anything had ever happened.

The feeling was different than anything else, and once upon a time he'd done almost everything. Better even than the purr of the Vette with the top down and the wind in his hair.

Now there was only cold wind on his face through the helmet's open visor, but the pavement rolled away, yellow and white lines blurring past, road signs unreadable because of the tears streaking from his eyes. He couldn't read the speedometer as it inched past one hundred, only felt the hum of the engine as it kicked into a new gear and he was flying, free.

----


End file.
